push on, push on, an' cat-er-corner y'r mountain here, A'd strike y'r
River by moonlight! So A have! So A have! But it's Satan's own waste
o' windfall 'mong these big trees! Such a leg-breakin' trail A have
na' beaten since A peddled Texas tickler done up in Gospel hymn books
filled wi' whiskey--"

"Well--I'll--be--hanged," slowly ejaculated Mr. Bat Brydges. "Come
far?" he asked aloud, fumbling his brain for a clue.

The old man, emerging from the timbers, took off his hat and swabbed
the sweat from his brow. Then he righted the saddle on his broncho.

"Eh, woman, do A scare y'?" This to Calamity, just turning down the
Ridge trail with a dun gray blanket filled with odds and ends on her
shoulders, when the padded thud of the pack horse coming through the
heavy timber was followed by the stalwart form of the newcomer. Face
and form were frontiersman; vesture, clerical; but Old Calamity trotted
back to the Range cabin.

"Come far, did y' ask? More or less, more or less. A've come farther
on unholier missions. We'd call it a nice bit snow-shoe run in the old
days. Two months since A left Saskatchewan! We've taken our time,
Bessie an' me--" caressing the mare with resounding slaps. "We're not
so young as we were, Bessie an' me, when we sarved Satan hot-foot back
an' forth these same trails till by the Grace o' God we broke halter
from Hell for holier trail--"

"Better loosen up and berth here for to-night," suggested the Ranger.
"The Ridge trail is steep going, down grade, after dark for a
stranger--"